


Good Children Are Seen And Not Heard

by meaninglessblah



Series: DC Kinkmeme Fills [6]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Childhood Trauma, Community: dckinkmeme, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Panic Attacks, Scarecrow's Fear Toxin (DCU), Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-02
Updated: 2020-09-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:14:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26243977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meaninglessblah/pseuds/meaninglessblah
Summary: Damian doesn't react to being fear-gassed as anyone expects. And sometimes, saying less says so much more.
Relationships: Dick Grayson & Damian Wayne
Series: DC Kinkmeme Fills [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1906351
Comments: 30
Kudos: 470





	Good Children Are Seen And Not Heard

**Author's Note:**

> **This is a fill for the[DC Kinkmeme](https://dckinkmeme.dreamwidth.org).**
> 
> **Prompt:** Damian gets feargassed, but he does not scream. He does not cry. He does not try and run away. He is eerily compliant, with only the slightest hints that something is wrong. because of this, no one notices when he’s hit, and he doesn’t say anything because he’s too far gone (and good children are to be seen and not heard).

It’s been a horrific night. 

Any night involving fear gas is usually a bad night, but none worse than when one of their own is gassed. A civilian sobbing about their dead pet, or shrieking over phantom spiders is one thing. Watching a man relive his own childhood death is entirely another. 

Jason’s still thrashing, even now that they’ve got him to the Cave. It’s taking Bruce and Dick combined to keep him on the cot, and Damian can tell they’re tiring. Full grown as he is now, Jason packs a considerable punch; the wayward bruise beginning to manifest on Dick’s jawbone is a testament to that. 

Everyone else scatters in the wake of them as they wheel Jason into the medical bay, stripping him of what remains of his weapons as they go. They clatter behind the wheeled cot, knives and magazines painting their path like breadcrumbs. 

Damian trails behind, breath heavy and lungs heaving from more than exertion. He should see to his own care, should get himself situated in the med bay, but he can’t bring himself to leave a partner until he’s dismissed, not when he failed to protect them like he did Jason. 

It wasn’t his- It wasn’t their faults. Jumped in a warehouse, their masks yanked askew in the moment’s squabble before they’d managed to subdue their many assailants. Just long enough for Jason to inhale, to breathe deep the noxious gas swirling sickly through the air. 

The effects hadn’t been immediate, though they had been swift. Damian hadn’t realised, hadn’t known. Hadn’t called for back up until Jason had slid down to his knees and started pleading, whimpers sliding from his lips in a tone that had chilled Damian to the core. 

Hadn’t _wanted_ to call for back up. Hadn’t wanted to admit that he’d _failed._

Damian sucks in a sharp breath, steps faltering in the doorway. They’re reaching into cabinets now, Drake pulling free an IV cable while Bruce murmurs slow and easy into Jason’s ear, strained for calm when his eyes look anything but. Damian wonders, absently, if he’s been gassed too. 

No, he wouldn’t let himself fall victim like that. Father is the best of them. Better than Damian, at least. 

A hand lands on his shoulder, and Damian’s spine snaps straight, chin settling into obedient, attentive pose before he recognises Alfred’s comforting squeeze. 

“Onto the spare cot, Master Damian,” the old man says breathlessly as he passes, nodding in the direction as he heads towards their more compromised patient. His expression is stricken, his brow hitched into discomfort as he readies a needle with sedative. 

Damian cringes out from under his passing shadow, skittering towards the cot in the corner of the room. Out of the way, he’s _in the way._

He crawls onto the cot, breaths audible as they press up through his lungs, and Damian desperately tries to quench them. Doesn’t want to draw any more unnecessary attention to himself, when someone so clearly needs that attention more. Doesn’t want to earn a reprimand for being the nuisance that he is, and Damian settles on the white cotton sheets with a tight-lipped grimace. 

Keeps his mouth shut and his breaths low as he watches the commotion across the room, hands folded neatly in his lap while he waits to be called on. Waits to be reprimanded. 

He might even be punished, for this transgression. He’s certainly earned them for far less severe failures in the past. 

Damian’s next breath whistles out between clenched teeth. He can feel his pulse fluttering between his ears, a hummingbird’s wingbeat to match the erratic tempo of his own heart. It’s echoed by the frantic bleats of Jason’s heart monitor when they latch the clip over his finger, the sedative already working its way into his system. 

He’s grateful for the noise it produces, for the cover it gives him to shudder and exhale without concern for drawing attention. 

_Good children are to be seen and not heard._

Damian feels dizzy, feels nauseous, sequestered away in his corner. The walls feel too close, with they way they leer in to press at him when he tries to draw in another breath. He focuses on trying to meditate, to _control_ himself. To be better than a failure. 

He can be, he promises. 

Jason is beginning to settle fully on the cot, his slump aided by the course of drugs in his system. Damian can see the paranoia ease off everyone’s shoulders, the relief that washes in in its wake. 

Tries not to panic at the thought that they’ll turn any minute now, and then the yelling will start, the words flying like daggers through the distance at him. 

_Careless, failure, no-good, bad, useless Robin. Unworthy, unneeded, unnecessary. Burden. Bastard._

Damian presses back the tight feeling in his throat, the burning behind his eyes, and shudders through his next breath. Tries to focus on the flex of Richard’s fingers as he shakes out the strain from his arms. He can’t make out what they’re saying, the words slurring together, whispered too far for him to discern their intentions. 

He wants to drop his chin, to show contriteness, beg forgiveness. Knows that’s never stopped the blows before, and resolves to keep his head held high, his shoulders set straight. Prove that he can still be the good soldier, even when he’s withstanding his due punishment. 

Dampness spills over his cheek and pools beneath his chin as Damian breathes deep through his nose. 

Richard turns, flashing him a bone-weary smile that’s two parts apologetic as he heads towards Damian’s cot. “Sorry, Damian, we’re coming. Haven’t forgotten you, we promise.” 

Damian forces himself to nod, to choke back the fear that spirals like mercury through his chest, saturating his veins. Keeps his hands folded neatly in his lap, to curb the urge to thrash, to flee. Clenches his teeth and pushes the tip of his tongue into the roof of his mouth until it bruises, to hold back the pleas that want to break loose. 

His punishment will come, inevitably, as he knew it would. And he will endure it, inevitably, as he knows he should. 

Richard smiles again when he’s close enough, threading fingers back through his sweat-soaked hair. He pats Damian’s knee with the other, and Damian curbs the flinch into a mere twitch that Richard disregards. 

He reaches for some cables, some IV tubing, babbling something about getting Damian checked over so they can clear him with a clean bill of health. Standard procedure, ticking all the boxes. 

“You’ll be up in your room in no time,” Richard promises with a soothing smile, and Damian hopes the plea in his gaze isn’t too obvious, that Richard won’t reprimand him for that too. Won’t command him to his own solitary company just to drive home the message. 

Damian’s hands clench into fists on his thighs, and Richard glances at them absently as he fumbles for a heart monitor. 

“Gloves off, Damian,” he encourages, and Damian nods again. Reaches up and tugs each finger free with rigorous, practiced movements. This is familiar, is certain. No point in avoiding what he’s due. 

Richard does glance up at his silent resolve, a concerned look passing over him that makes Damian’s skin itch. Makes him bite down hard on his tongue to quench the, ‘I’m fine, I’m good, I’m perfect’ reassurances. Fears that if he does, Richard will see through his ruse, will see him for the imperfect disgrace he fears he may be. 

He pats Damian’s knee again, massaging around his kneepad. “It’s gonna be alright. Jay’s going to be fine, I promise.” 

Fine now, that he’s been taken off Damian’s hands. Now that he’s no longer under Damian’s negligent care. 

“Alfred must have reorganised,” Richard apologises, and rises to approach the team of men still milling about Jason’s cot. “Timmy, have you seen that spare heart monitor?” 

Damian’s lungs hitch a little at the mention of Drake, at the reminder of the Detective. His father’s - his grandfather’s - favoured heir. The enduring threat to everything Damian promised he would be, promised he would earn. 

“Should be under the right-side cabinet,” Drake calls, and Damian grits his teeth and forces himself to _breathe._ Not to think about what hellish device his predecessor is beckoning forth to prove just how poorly Damian’s managing himself. To highlight every flaw in analytical clarity, betrayed by the beat of his own heart and the heave of his own lungs. 

Richard slides down to his heels and paws through the cabinet. Drags out a monitor and beams. “Got it. Where’s a screen? The one on Damian’s cot isn’t working.” 

“Oh, that one?” Tim asks, waving in the general direction of Damian’s bed and the medical supplies littered around him. “That one’s defective. There should be some spares in the back, just replace that one.” 

The anxiety that has been slowly clawing up Damian’s throat in the last half hour, drowning him from the inside out, crests over his tongue in a shout of remorse. Spills over his teeth and out in a pleading whimper as the dam behind his eyes bursts free. 

The words break, unstoppable in their force as four sets of eyes swing to fix on him, stunned. 

“I’m sorry!” Damian sobs, hands unfolding as he shoves to his feet. He has to vent some of the energy making every limb shiver with terror. Has to show them that he _means_ it, that he can do better, _be_ better. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to, I’ll- I’ll do better, I promise, I’m better, I’m better, I _swear it-_ ” 

“Dami,” Richard interrupts, tone hushed and confused. There’s concern there too, something hitched into his brow that Damian can’t place. 

But it’s not approval, not forgiveness, not understanding, and Damian’s throat laces tight around his desperation. “I won’t fail again, I promise you. It was a mistake, one mistake. It won’t happen again, I won’t let it.” 

“Damian, it’s okay,” Richard soothes, approaching slowly. One hand outstretched like Damian would calm a rabid animal, and Damian flinches at the parallel. Works to school his expression from fleeting terror to something more civilised. 

“I’m in control,” he promises sternly, and hopes they don’t notice how his voice wobbles around the words. “I am, I’m a good soldier.” His gaze slides to his father, imploring. “I can be your good soldier, I’m the better one. I can be enough, just let me show you-” 

“Damian,” Father says, sharp and low, his tone gravel and steel. 

It cuts through Damian’s resolve, makes him choke on a wail as his knees fold beneath him. He can feel the disappointment like waves, each one crushing him down into the tile like a new blow. 

“I’m better,” he wails, “I am, I am, you don’t need them, I’m enough, I’m _enough-_ ” 

There are arms around him, and he flinches at the contact, kicking back against the threat. They wind tighter, pulling him into a lap and then a chest that blooms bright and blue across his vision. Damian digs his fingers between Richard’s ribs and clings as he buries himself into the larger man’s collarbones. Begs with the whole of his body. 

“Please don’t replace me,” Damian whimpers. “I’m better than the others, I am, I _promise._ ” 

“It’s okay, Dami,” Richard murmurs, soft as a breath, into the crown of Damian’s head. Squeezes him tight in response. “We’re not replacing you, you’re okay, you’re good, you’re so good, Robin, you are.” 

Damian nods and sobs, vision blurring with his tears. “Please.” 

“It’s alright, you’re alright.” 

“I’ll be better, please keep me, please.” 

“We’d never get rid of you, Robin,” Richard promises, hushed and horrified against his hair. His hand climbs to cup the back of Damian’s head, to rock them gently where they’re curled on the tile. “Never ever. Never could replace you, Damian, I promise. Tell me what’s wrong. Tell me, it’s okay, tell me.” 

Damian sniffs and chokes in air. “I’m better than the others, I am-” 

“What others?” Richard asks, and Damian feels his head turn, his chin brushing over Damian’s scalp when he looks over at Drake. At _Drake-_ “Tim and Jason?” 

Damian shakes his head vehemently, drills his forehead into the man’s chest like he can burrow into it. Can convince Richard that he needs Damian as much as Damian needs him. 

“The Heretics,” Damian whimpers, and feels the body beneath him, around him, stiffen. “The clones, the others. I’m not defective, I promise, I swear I’m not. I made a mistake, I made a mistake and I’m _sorry-_ ” 

“The Heretic?” Richard repeats, confusion saturating his tone. Then a beat, before he says sternly, “Damian, did you- Did you think we were going to replace you with the Heretic?” 

“I’m better than him,” Damian whispers, squeezing his eyes shut. “I am. I’m not useless. Don’t replace me, please.” 

“Course not,” Richard whispers back, tone raw as he soothes a large hand down Damian’s back. “Course not, Damian, never.” 

Damian shudders out a breath, nodding the reassurance into Richard’s chest until it feels real. 

“Was he gassed?” Drake asks, much closer now. Damian’s fingers bite into Richard’s ribs. 

“I don’t know, I didn’t get to test him before,” Richard murmurs back quickly. The hand in Damian’s hair pets at his locks. “We were so busy with Jay, and he was so quiet, I just assumed…” 

A footstep, and then another hand lifts to replace Richard’s on his back. “Damian,” his father says, and Damian shudders, curling tighter before he resolves to lift his head. 

Blue eyes swim into his view, pinched around the edges as they study his face. That hand sweeps down his spine and back up again, slow and steady. Damian tries to count his breaths in time with it. 

“You’re not going anywhere, Damian,” Father assures him, resolute. “You’re not being replaced. You’re staying right here with us. You’ve done so well, Damian, you’ve been so good.” 

It’s like a shunt puncturing his lungs. The breath rushes from Damian in a wheeze, his head swimming with it as he fixates on that familiar face, those familiar features. Richard hasn’t stopped rocking him, is still cradling him in his lap where they’re sat on the tile, Damian limp in his arms. 

Father’s palm squeezes the muscle between his neck and shoulder, a thin smile curling the very corners of his lips. It looks painful, looks forced, but Damian just blinks and breathes. 

“You’re perfect, Damian,” Father reassures. “I couldn’t ask for anyone more perfect than you.” 

Damian nods, the relief sapping what energy remains coiled around his leaden limbs. His eyelids feel heavy, his lungs sore from his crying. 

Father glances up at something above Damian, and after another moment, Richard shifts him in his lap. Fingers tug at his sleeve, rolling it up towards his shoulder as Damian shifts and burrows his forehead into Richard’s neck. 

“It’s alright, Damian,” Richard promises softly. “Just going to give you a sedative so we can move you to your bed. You’re going to be fine, babybird, we promise. We’re not going anywhere, you’re not going anywhere.” 

There’s a sharp pain in his bicep that yanks a grunt from behind Damian’s teeth. Richard shushes him, turning his nose into Damian’s crown so he can hum gently into his hair, and he tries to cling to the sound. Lets it wrap around him as Richard holds Damian tight against his steady heartbeat. 

Damian counts them until they blur into the song in Richard’s throat. 

**Author's Note:**

> [ ](https://linktr.ee/meaninglessblah)


End file.
